Chapter 4
FOUR
BOONE
Erica,
I’m not sure why I’m writing this instead of sleeping. Habit, maybe. Or cowardice. I told myself I wouldn’t crowd you. That you deserved the space I promised. But it turns out silence is harder than I expected.
Today we laid the first stretch of pipe for a village that’s been hauling water by hand for years. There were kids everywhere, watching us like we were magicians. One of them asked if I was building a river underground. I told him yes. He nodded like that made perfect sense.
I thought of you. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you look at things like that too. Like there’s something worth believing in and a story under every surface.
Is that how writers think? Do you look at the world and see an endless stream of stories?
I wonder what story you’d write here.
I’m sure it would be impossible to put down.
The food here is spicy. It’s the kind of spicy that sneaks up on you and hits you over the head. One minute, you think you’re fine. The next, you’re sweating through your shirt and the waiter is laughing at you, because he said it was too hot for a newbie.
I’ve always been bad at that. Underestimating things that look manageable at first glance.
I grew up with my mom, mostly. Just the two of us. She worked a lot, dated sometimes. Wanted big things. Love, especially. I learned early how to make myself useful. Helpful. Quiet when needed.
I don’t think I ever told anyone that before. It feels strange saying it now. But you have this way of listening, even when you’re not here.
I reread your books last night.
That sounds creepy. I promise I mean it in a not creepy way.
You write women who choose themselves without becoming hard. Do you know how rare that is? I didn’t, until I noticed it missing everywhere else.
I don’t know what you’re doing with your days. I hope you’re writing. I hope you’re laughing. I hope Georgie hasn’t decided she likes Knox better than you.
He says he’s been stopping by to check on things. I’d rather call and ask you how they’re going, but I don’t.
I promised you time and space to write your stories. To chase your dreams. I mean to stand by that.
Even though I wish I could hear your voice.
Hell, today, I’d settle for one of your letters. You’ve always had a way with words. Even when it was just sending a letter to a mountain man looking for a connection.
At the time, I thought it was Knox who needed it. I realize now, it was me. I’m the one who needed your words.
I know I told you that I used to read my mom’s romance novels when I was a kid.
I don’t think she ever knew. Or maybe she did and didn’t mind.
They made the nights quieter. They made it feel like love was something that happened, not something you had to chase down.
That it was something everyone could have
I think that’s why it’s easier to say things like this on paper. Writing never asked me to be brave in real time.
I don’t know if I’m brave yet. I just know I’m more honest here.
Or, at least, mostly honest.
There’s a mural going up near the worksite.
It’s being done by a woman who is painting mountains the color of sunrise. Every morning I walk past it and think about how you stood at the window that day after we were together.
You were studying it with bated breath, as if you really were looking at paradise.
I wish I would have asked you what was going through your head as you watched the sunrise on my mountain.
I don’t know what this is, Erica. Or what it will be. I just know that telling you things feels like putting something back where it belongs.
I write late into the night, sitting on the edge of a narrow bed, boots kicked off, socks damp from a day spent ankle-deep in mud and concrete dust.
Outside, the city hums. Inside, everything is quiet except the scratch of pen on paper.
Words pour out of me in a way they never do when I’m having a real conversation.
I close the notebook, wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to send the growing pile of letters, all addressed to Erica.
By the time the contract starts winding down, the spiral notebook is thick with pages.
Some are letters. Some are fragments. Some are just sentences that showed up when I wasn’t expecting them.
None of them have stamps.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bunk, flipping through them, when my phone buzzes.
Knox.
I stare at the screen like it might bite me.
Then I answer.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “You still alive?”
“Barely,” I say. “You miss me already?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
There’s a pause, then, “How’s the world tour?”
“Hot. Muddy. Important, apparently.”
“Sounds like you.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. “How’s Alaska?”
“Cold. Same as always.”
“And… the cabin?”
“Standing.”
“And the cat?”
He laughs. “Georgie’s huge. You been feeding her steroids?”
“She eats her feelings.”
“Apparently. She’s playful, though. Attached herself to Erica like she’s known her forever.”
My chest tightens.
“Oh,” I say, carefully. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And Erica’s doing good. Made friends. Gets coffee with Quincy and half the town now.”
I smile despite myself.
“That’s… good.”
“Is it?”
I close my eyes. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat. Then Knox sighs. “You want to know something else?”
“Sure.”
“She’s happy. Or she looks like she is. Writing a lot. Selling books. People like her.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
“Good,” I say, like a man who knows how to sound casual.
Knox hums. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m aware.”
“You coming back?”
I glance at the notebook on the bed.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sooner than expected. Contract wrapped early.”
“How soon?”
“A week.”
Another pause. “You gonna tell her?”
I swallow.
“That’s the problem.”
“Figure it out,” Knox says. “You’re better with words than you think.”
I end the call and sit there for a long time, notebook heavy in my lap.
I’ve crossed oceans. Built things that matter. Learned how to stay quiet when it counted.
Now I have to decide how to come home.
And what to say to the woman who already knows more about me than anyone else alive.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.